


shine and pulse

by boychik



Category: Hatoful Kareshi | Hatoful Boyfriend
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boychik/pseuds/boychik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only a matter of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shine and pulse

When Ryouta is ill, they watch over him.

 

Iwamine, he of the fluffy feathers and the icy eyes, takes small, quick notes on Ryouta’s condition. He pauses mid-jot to look over that face. For one raised by his mother, there is little resemblance other than his petite stature. No, he looks exactly as Ryuuji must have when he was young. The cheeks still full at age sixteen, would they lengthen and hollow the way his father’s did? The thick brows, gentle and strong as a hero’s should be. But this Kawara is not like the other. If he were, why would he be splayed out on an infirmary bed like this, groaning softly to himself? He’s so weak, too weak.

Iwamine takes notes as he administers the drug. One tiny shot of liquid, only half a milliliter, flowing into Kawara Ryouta’s bloodstream. Soon the cells will multiply until they number the stars in the sky. Soon the other Kawara will shine and pulse, lit from the inside by virused liver and lungs and heart. There’s a sort of pleasure, a satisfaction in watching the needle push past thick layers of plumage and sink into the silken skin of Kawara’s son, but it’s purely scientific. As for the wish? It’s only a matter of time.

 

Sakazaki sometimes mutters to himself and sometimes he hums brokenly, some cheery, major-key minuet, as he stares out the window. He would have looked empty and glum if he didn’t have the hard gleam of focus in his blue eyes. Ryouta lies in the bed after coming out of some sort of doze or daze and can hear the faint lilt of French song drifting and dying on infirmary air. He shuffles past Ryouta, poor pigeon, as he twitches in sleep. Yuuya is hardly ever ill—part of his qualification for being an agent stems from his health and vitality, after all. Even as a young bird, he has never been as ill as Ryouta has been lately, and he hopes he never will be. Ryouta’s beak is leaking. When he coughs, pieces of poison stream from his mouth and diffuse through the air. It’s only a matter of time.

 

Hiyoko comes by sometimes, smelling of wind and earth and bearing small, bizarre gifts—a pencil, perhaps, sharpened at both ends like a double-ended spear, bearing a legend that none of them can decipher, or a locket, silver-red and rusted shut, that she found outside the woods, or a charmingly shaped bone leftover from a hunting expedition. Usually, though, it’s just the pleasure of her company. She holds his hand tight as she chatters excitedly, eyes darting like minnows, white teeth flashing. Ryouta laughs with her, a flush creeping up his neck, crimson eyes halfway shut. Sakazaki’s eyes pass over them before he turns his back on them to shuffle and straighten papers. They’re so close. It’s only a matter of time.


End file.
